


oh, lazarus

by irishais



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 15x20 Fix-It, Destiel - Freeform, M/M, also i haven't watched SPN since like season 6, i definitely didn't but i saw enough liveblogging, please accept this in lieu of sympathy cards or flowers, whatever the fuck the finale was i'm sorry for y'all that watched it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:48:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27662936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irishais/pseuds/irishais
Summary: Heaven's not the worst, but it's lonely. Destiel, 15x20 fix-it.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 64





	oh, lazarus

Baby’s got a full tank of gas, his favorite station hasn’t played commercials in _hours_ (he thinks they never will) and Dean’s got the pedal to the metal. Ninety, consistently, fast enough that anything still in the rearview will never be able to catch him. 

It’s habit, though-- nothing in the mirror but serpentine black asphalt, a sunset that rivals every animated movie he’s ever seen. 

As far as this heaven gig goes, it’s not the worst he could have imagined. 

(Lonely, though.) 

He misses his brother. Misses _Cas_ , but that’s a tangle of knots Dean isn’t sure he’s ready to work through yet. Years, _years_ \-- _I love you_. 

Cas isn’t allowed to just _say that_ , and then fucking _disappear_ into like... hell worse than hell. But Dean supposes he’s got all of eternity to come to terms with _that_ , that Cas’ sacrifice gave him a couple extra days of living. 

(Worth it, those last few hours on Earth?) 

Dean isn't sure. Maybe not-- but he'd gotten to say goodbye, at least, gotten Sam to tell him it was okay, that he could rest, that he could _stop_. But he wants more time; he'd always thought there'd be at least a while longer. Give him a _week_ , a month, hell, a few extra _hours,_ and they could have figured it out. They could’ve brought Cas _back_ , saved him, figured out what to do _next_. Take it one day at a time, one hour, one minute--

But, his time is up. The world will spin on without him, Sam will go on without him (despite all his protests to the contrary, Sam’s always been the smart one, the _survivor_. Dean is reckless, mean in the way he faces the world, weapon in hand and fate be damned. It’s how they got this far, and why he’s here, with his car, his tunes, a six-pack of beer that’s better than bottom shelf, a favorite when he’d had the cash to burn. 

Figures, that would follow him here, another cold brew in the cup holder-- he doesn’t think there’s a rule against drinking and driving here, and frankly, it’s not like he can _die_ any more than he’s already done, so Dean drains the last of his third, tossing the empty onto the seat to join two others just like it. 

It occurs to him as he’s reaching for the fourth that he might not even be able to get _drunk_ in heaven. That’s kind of bullshit. 

His fingers don’t find beer. They find soft-washed fabric, the dense flat of a thigh beneath. Dean keeps his eyes straight forward, aware he’s holding his breath, aware he’s not going to do anything about it until he figures out if he’s dreaming or not. 

He follows fabric up, finds the lighter, smooth waterproofing of a trenchcoat, the sleeve too big, the belting around the wrist tangling in his fingers for a second before he moves half an inch over and squeezes lightly around a solidly-real wrist. 

No, he’s got to be dreaming this. _Has_ to be. People like him, they don’t get the happily ever after thing, no matter how hard they fight for it. He squeezes the wrist harder, just to make sure. 

“Ow.”

It comes out of _nowhere_ , clear as a church bell, one deadpan word. 

Dean nearly crashes the car at the surprise of the sound, releasing his hold on the wrist to land both hands solidly back on the wheel, Baby careening across the center yellow line until he wrestles her back under control and the brakes engage, laying streaks of winding rubber in their wake. 

He throws the car into park, and for a long, long minute, stares straight ahead at the neverending perfect highway, the sunset that seems to cling on forever just so it can be _appreciated_. His heart pounds in his ears; shit, maybe he _can_ die twice. 

The rearview mirror is pointed just slightly right. He flicks his gaze to it just slightly, and catches a glimpse of one solid, khaki-clad shoulder, the curve of one ear and the askew dark of familiar hair. 

“--You’re not fucking with me, are you?”

The figure in the mirror shakes his head. 

“I am not.” 

“How’d you--?” 

Another brief motion, a shrug-- no great effort, really, this is _Castiel_ , and the laws of reality never seemed to apply to him, skating off angelic skin like rain on a duck’s ass. 

His throat is tight, but Dean manages the update, anyway: “So, I’m dead.”  
  
“I know. I’m sorry.”  
  
“Yeah, well-- shit, Cas, it was bound to happen sooner or later.” 

This time, the angel in the mirror smiles. “The difficulty of mortality, I know. Although, you _have_ always been hard to kill.” 

Dean’s fingers uncurl, one at a time, from the familiar shape of the steering wheel, and he lets his hands fall into his lap, unsure what he should do with them now. Cas is _here_. Cas is, well, _alive_ isn’t the word he’s looking for, but it’s going to have to do. He’s never been good with words. Sam’s always been--

 _It’s okay, Dean._

“Are you going to keep driving?” Castiel inquires, and it’s such a banal question that it shocks Dean into laughter, real, genuine, slightly startled laughter, hard and straight from the gut _laughter_ that brings tears to his eyes. He figures out what to do with his hands, knuckles smacking on the steering wheel as he brings them up to cover his face, trying to get himself under control, but the laughter jerks sideways, into _relief_ and those tears are definable now. 

He hasn’t cried this much in a long time, not so close together, but this time it’s different than the shocking emptiness in his chest and the overwhelming of _I love you_ before losing Cas forever, this sitting here in his car with Kansas on the radio, and an angel in the passenger seat. 

Cas’s arms come around him, and Dean _weeps_ , openly, ferociously into the callused dry of his palms, because this is _it_ , it’s _over_ , he can _rest_. 

He’s not alone. He’s not alone. 

Eventually, though, the tears have to stop, eyes red-rimmed and face wet, and he shoves it all away with the sides of his hand, scouring them dry on his worn jeans, and then, because it’s Dean Winchester, the man who always has to say _something_ , he leans back in the driver’s seat, looking sideways at Cas. 

“--You _love me_?

“Always.”

And with one word, it’s like the weight that’s plagued Dean Winchester for most of his life has been lifted. It’s a beautiful night, the radio’s playing his favorite songs; it feels like one of them should move. That he should take Cas’ hand. 

This is _easy_ , Dean’s done this a thousand times, but it still takes a moment for him to work up the nerve, hand reaching across the short distance between them. 

Their fingers twine together like it’s always been meant to be, like they were made for each other. He grips tight briefly, loosens. Doesn’t let go. 

Castiel looks down at their hands for a moment. Back up to Dean. He doesn’t pull away; Dean never wants him to. 

He moves their hands onto the gearshift, and puts the car in drive. 

“Alright, then. Where’re we going?”  
  
“Forward is a good start.” 

He can do forward. 

The car moves back in the left lane, back on their side of the road, toward the sunset, toward forever. 

  
  
  



End file.
